Archenemies (Renegades #2)(86)
The mansion.
The … palace, at least in comparison to every home Nova had ever had.
“You can’t be serious,” she muttered.
The entry gate was connected to an old brick wall that lined the estate. The walkway curved around a tiered fountain, which either no longer worked or had been turned off for the coming winter. The large arched windows were trimmed in pristine white moldings. A Greek-style portico framed the front porch and the grand double doors, which were painted a welcoming butter yellow. A series of chimneys erupted from various gables around the roof and the occasional bay window added visual interest to the brick.
Awe and disgust mingled together as she took it in, and she wasn’t sure which was more prominent. She wanted to jeer at how pretentious it all was, but she had to admit that wasn’t entirely true.
The home was … stately, to be sure. It had a subtle classicism to it, like it could have been built at any point in the past two hundred years.
Still, it was far more square footage than three people could possibly use.
Maybe she was just feeling defensive, though. She couldn’t help wondering what Adrian must have thought when he saw the decrepit row house on Wallowridge, when he was accustomed to this.
Gulping, Nova approached the gate. She reached for the handle, when a red light flickered on a device built into the nearest pillar. The light cascaded over Nova from head to foot, then came to rest on her wristband.
“Renegade credentials detected,” said a computerized voice from a speaker disguised in a lamppost. “You may approach the main entrance and present yourself. Warning: Straying from the path could result in loss of life or limb. Welcome to the Gatlon City Mayor’s Mansion!”
The red light blinked out at the same time a lock clunked inside the gate.
Nova pushed on the gate and it groaned and creaked, but once she was through, it swung back of its own accord. She heard the locking mechanism bolt again and buried a shudder.
“Stay on the path,” she said, scanning the flagstone. The vast green lawns to either side were tidy and quaint, like they were waiting for someone to roll out a game of croquet. “Duly noted.”
She made her way to the door and stepped into the shadow of the portico. Two topiaries stood on the steps, taking up residence in ancient stone urns. A knocker on the middle of the yellow door was shaped like a tusked elephant, with the knocker held in its looped trunk.
A small bronze plaque beside the door read:
GATLON CITY HISTORICAL MARKER
MAYOR’S MANSION
This house served as the home for Gatlon City mayors for more than a century prior to the twenty-year period known as the Age of Anarchy, during which Mayor Robert Hayes and his family and staff were murdered in this location.
Beneath this stoic plaque was a smaller, wooden one, with hand-painted words that read, EVERHART-WESTWOOD RESIDENCE: ALL SOLICITING, PICKETING, AND VILLAINOUS ANTICS STRICTLY PROHIBITED!
Before Nova could determine if she thought this was funny or not, one of the double doors swung open.
She jumped back. Her hand reached for her belt before she remembered she hadn’t brought it with her.
“Nova?” said Adrian, haloed by the light of the foyer behind him. “I thought the security system might be pulling a joke on me.” He almost, but not quite, smiled. “What are you doing here?”
A hundred little observations rushed into Nova’s mind at once, rendering her speechless. That the smell of cinnamon wafted from the doorway. That Adrian’s long-sleeved T-shirt seemed tighter than normal, and he was wearing paint-splattered jeans with tears in the knees. That there was a charcoal drawing on the wall behind him depicting the Stockton Bridge at night. That he was pressing a hand beneath his ribs in an odd way, and as soon as he noticed her noticing, the hand dropped to his side.
She picked what seemed to be the least problematic of her thoughts, and said, “You live in a mansion.”
Adrian blinked, then considered the entryway, as if it had been a long time since he’d stopped to really take in his surroundings. “The Mayor’s Mansion, yeah. You didn’t know that?”
“No, I did,” she said. “But I didn’t expect … I mean, it’s an actual, literal mansion.” She gestured at the lawn. “You have a fountain in your yard.”
A slow grin crept over Adrian’s face. “Don’t freak out, but there’s a carriage house in the back. Oh, and the attic used to be servant’s quarters. There’s even a bell system that connects to all these little buttons throughout the house, so if the mayor’s wife wanted a cup of tea, she’d just have to push one of the buttons and a servant would come and take her order.” His eyes twinkled. “Classy stuff, right?”
Nova gaped at him. “Tell me you don’t have servants.”
Laughing, Adrian stepped back. “No servants. Do you want to come in? I was warming up cinnamon rolls for dinner.”
“What, you don’t eat seven-course meals every night?”
“Only on Sundays. Is that a yes?”
“That’s a yes.” Nova held her breath as she crossed the threshold, her focus roving from the intricate crown moldings to the crystals dripping from the chandelier. She glanced at Adrian’s abdomen and could detect a squarish lump beneath his shirt. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Adrian said quickly, pressing a hand to the spot again, then waving the question away. “I was, uh … unpacking some boxes with a box cutter and it slipped and got me. You know how they always say to cut away from yourself? I finally understand why.”